BEAK   WITH   US 

J.  Collection  of 
Tavern  Club 

Verses 


Meum  est  propositum  in  tabema  mori 
Et  vinum  appositum  sitienti  ori 
Ut  dicant  cum  venerint  angelorum  chori 
Deus  sit  propitius  isti  potatori 


ANNO    T.  C.    XXI 


COPYRIGHT,   1905,  BT  HOLKER  ABBOTT,  SECRETARY 


CONTENTS 

NOTE  v 

The  Bear  and  the  Bowl,  1885 

HENRY  STRONG  DUHAND     1 
To  my  Brother:  Salvini  Dinner,  1889 

Translated:  THOMAS  RUSSELL  SULLIVAN    4 
Bear  Song  in  Antigone,  1890 

ARLO  BATES    5 
To  W.  H.  Kendal,  1891 

THOMAS  RUSSELL  SULLIVAN    7 
Prologue:  The  Maid's  Tragedy,  1892 

BARRETT  WENDELL    9 
Epilogue:  A  Night  in  Seville,  1896 

THOMAS  RUSSELL  SULLIVAN  11 
Prospect:  Notice  of  Christmas  Sports,  1897 

HERBERT  PUTNAM  12 
A  Toast 

ROBERT  GRANT  15 
The  'Prentices'  Song:  The  Prodigal  Son,  1898 

GEORGE  PIERCE  BAKER  18 
Prologue:  The  Double  Marriage,  1900 

ARLO  BATES  20 
Verses  at  Dinner  to  Mark  Twain,  1901 

M.  A.  DEWOLFB  HOWE  22 
Song:  "Lawyers'  Night,"  1902 

WINTHROP  AMES  24 
Lines  on  the  Playing  of  Mercedes,  1903 

ARLO  BATES  25 


iv  CONTENTS 

To  B.  P.:  A  "Hellion"  Verse,  1903 

M.  A.  DEWOLFE  HOWE  30 
Song  by  "Musicus,"  Prize  Competition,  1903 

THOMAS  RUSSELL  SULLIVAN  31 
The  Musketeers,  1903 

ROBERT  GRANT  33 
Glitha's  Song:  The  Vanished  Bride,  1903 

HENRY  COPLEY  GREENE  35 
To  Owen  Wister:  A  "Hellion"  Verse,  1904 

FRANCIS  SHAW  STURGIS  37 
On  Staging  a  Play   by  B.  W.:    A    "  Hellion " 

Verse,  1904  FRANCIS  SHAW  STURGIS  38 

To  the  Taverners,  with  a  Present  of  Champagne, 

1904  OWEN  WISTER  39 

Lines  at  Dinner  to  Cameron  Forbes,  1904 

ARTHUR  STANWOOD  PIER  40 
Lines  at  Dinner  to  Cameron  Forbes,  1904 

M.  A.  DEWOLFE  HOWE  42 
Sonnet:  Twentieth  Anniversary,  1904 

ARLO  BATES  44 
Verses  at  Twentieth  Anniversary  Dinner,  1904 

ROBERT  GRANT  45 

The  Presidential  Range:  Song,  Twentieth  Anni 
versary  dinner,  1904      M.  A.  DEWOLFE  HOWE  49 
Epilogue:  Christmas  play,  1904 

M.  A.  DEWOLFE  HOWE  51 
Valentine :  " Let  the  Hills  be  joyful  together,"  1905 

THOMAS  RUSSELL  SULLIVAN  53 
Valentine:  to  P.  T.,  1905 

ARTHUR  STANWOOD  PIER  55 
To  Booker  Washington,  1905 

LE  BARON  RUSSELL  BRIGGS  56 


NOTE 

From  the  occasional  verse  read  or  recited  by 
members  of  the  Tavern  Club  at  its  meetings, 
these  selections  have  been  compiled.  Some  of 
the  earlier  manuscripts  unfortunately  are  lost. 
The  present  examples  of  those  that  remain  are 
privately  printed  to  mark  the  twenty-first  an 
niversary  of  the  Club,  as  well  as  to  insure  their 
preservation  and  to  furnish  a  pleasant  reminder 
of  the  past. 

The  compilation  does  not  include  the  well- 
remembered  work  contributed  at  various  times 
by  club-guests. 

December  1,  1905. 


THE   BEAR   AND   THE    BOWL 

Read  at  the  Dedication  of  the  Bowl  —  1885 

I  RISE  in  honor  of  the  Bowl; 

The  Bowl  itself,  not  that  within  it; 
I  sing  the  body,  not  the  soul, 

And  how  a  Bear  did  first  begin  it. 

How  Doctor  Tilden,  filled  with  zeal,1 
To  buy  that  bear  a  fund  collected, 

Nor  hearkened  to  the  sad  appeal 

Of  certain  men  who  quite  objected. 

But  we  were  loath  to  lose  our  pet 

As  lawyers  are  to  lose  a  client; 
And  vowing  we  should  have  it  yet, 

The  Doctor  bargained  with  the  Giant.2 

The  following  footnotes  were  prepared  for  the  rereading 
of  these  verses  at  the  Twentieth  Anniversary  Dinner,  No 
vember  11,  1904. 

1  The  above  is  a  true  history.    Dr.  Tilden's  fund  for  the 
purchase  of  the  Bear  was  diverted  and  used  for  the  purchase 
of  the  Bowl. 

2  The  Giant  was  the  proprietor  (and  one  of  the  curiosities 
as  well)  of  the  dime  museum  in  which  the  bear  was  seen  and 
coveted. 


2        THE   BEAR  AND  THE   BOWL 

Ah!  when  again  upon  this  Club 

Shall  dawn  an  idea  hah*  so  witty 

As  purchasing  an  ursine  cub! 

But  that  Executive  Committee 


Which  rules  all  things  pertaining  to 
Such  ideas,  be  they  ne'er  so  clever, 

Which  sits  on  things  proposed  to  do, 
They  sat  upon  that  scheme  forever. 

Still,  Gentlemen,  to  our  relief 

From  that  young  b'ar  we  find  we  're  owing 
The  bas-relief,  which  is  the  chief 

Adornment  to  this  punch-bowl  glowing. 

The  bowl  itself  —  but  here  I  pause. 

I  do  not  dare  thus  single-handed 
To  touch  that  subject  deep,  because 

It  needs  a  strong  force,  well  commanded, 

To  well  discuss  it  as  it  stands 

Filled  full  with  Pitcher's8  strong  potation; 
I  can  but  stretch  forth  both  my  hands 

And  make  this  solemn  invocation: 

*  Pitcher  was  a  noted  publican  and  brewer  of  punch  in  the 
good  town  of  Boston  in  the  last  century. 


THE  BEAR  AND   THE   BOWL        3 

Oh!  work  of  art  to  cheer  the  heart! 
Oh!   Punch-Bowl  most  phenomenal! 
Whene'er  your  contents  glide  adown  the  Tavern 

Club's  oesophagus 
May  it  feel  a  presence  rising 
From  the  cavity  abdominal, 
As  though  King  Cole  in  spirit  stole  from  out  that 
dark  sarcophagus! 

HENRY  STRONG  DURAND. 


TO   MY   BROTHER 

From  the  Italian  of  Federico  Calamati;  for  the  dinner  to 
Salvini,  November  14,  1889. 

TORQUATO,  all  in  vain  your  love  demands 

A  labored  tribute  at  an  exile's  hands, 

To  him  whose  gentle  presence  oversways 

The  prostrate  soul,  and  stills  the  note  of  praise. 

Salvini!    Glory  of  the  art  that  blends 

All  arts  in  one,  and  makes  all  nations  friends! 

Nor  lip,  nor  hand,  nor  trembling  pen  of  mine 

Shall  speak  for  him,  whose  speech  is  half  divine; 

Demand  for  that  a  more  than  mortal  strain; 

Bring  Alfieri  back  to  life  again! 

Translated  by  THOMAS  RUSSELL  SULLIVAN. 


BEAR   SONG   IN   "ANTIGONE" 

APRIL  1,  1890. 
Air:  —  "Vive  I' Amour." 

LET  every  good  Taverner  fill  up  his  mug; 

Vive  la  compagnie! 
We'll  drink  to  our  bear  with  a  gluggity-glug; 

Vive  la  compagnie! 

We  '11  lustily  shout  for  the  jolly  brown  bear, 
We  '11  drink  to  him  deep  as  we  drink  to  the  fair, 
For  under  his  flag  can  be  no  care; 

Vive  la  compagnie! 

CHORUS:  Vive  la  bear,  vive  la  bear! 

Vive  la,  vive  la,  vive  la  bear! 
Joy  we  share;  down  with  care! 
Vive  la  compagnie! 

There 's  many  a  tavern  and  many  a  bear; 

Vive  la  compagnie! 
None  of  them  all  with  our  own  may  compare; 

Vive  la  compagnie! 
So  sharp  with  his  ears,  so  quick  with  his  jaw; 


6       BEAR  SONG  IN  "ANTIGONE" 

So  strong  in  his  stomach,  so  ready  with  paw; 
As  clear  in  his  head  as  a  judge  in  the  law; 
Vive  la  compagnie! 
CHORUS. 

Then  every  good  Taverner  fill  up  his  glass; 

Vive  la  compagnie! 
And  deep  will  we  drink  as  we  let  the  toast  pass ; 

Vive  la  compagnie! 

We'll  lustily  shout  for  our  jolly  brown  bear, 
And  drink  to  him  deep  as  we  drink  to  the  fair, 
Good  comrades  together  with  never  a  care; 
Vive  la  compagnie! 
CHORUS. 

ARLO  BATES. 


TO   W.    H.    KENDAL 

From  the  Tavern  Club,  February  28,  1891. 

WHEN,  before  the  cauldron's  flame, 
Glamis  to  the  witches  came, 
And  its  bubbles  boiled  away, 
Still  the  sisters  bade  him  stay; 
Like  a  show,  they  brought  to  pass 
Kings,  reflected  in  a  glass. 

Through  the  Tavern,  like  a  show, 
Kings  have  come,  and  kings  will  go; 
Loftiest  of  art's  lineage, 
Hero,  poet,  seer,  and  sage; 
Still,  departing  from  the  door, 
Still  the  glass  shows  many  more. 

Lo!  to-night  our  taper  shines 
For  the  art  of  fleeting  lines; 
Of  our  guest  the  vanished  trace 
Only  memory  can  replace. 
By  what  spell,  when  he  departs, 
Shall  his  image  fill  our  hearts  ? 


TO   W.  H.  KENDAL 

How  shall  we  this  presence  hold 
In  the  days  when  we  are  old  ? 

Which  of  all  his  titles  won 

Philamir,  Pygmalion? 

Trevor,  Crichton,  Ira  Lee, 

All  he  was,  or  is  to  be? 

Which  of  these,  when  each  is  best, 

Best  befits  the  regal  guest  ? 

Ah!  the  best  that  art  reveals 
Time,  the  thief,  remorseless  steals! 
Something  dearer  than  his  fame 
To  the  Tavern  with  him  came; 
In  the  Tavern,  to  the  end, 
Call  him  comrade,  kinsman,  friend. 

Friend,  may  all  our  hearts  can  do 
Bind  us  closer  still  to  you! 
If,  in  Life's  upsurging  track, 
Wave  on  wave  shall  bring  you  back, 
Through  the  Tavern,  like  a  show, 
Kings  may  come,  and  kings  may  go! 

So  shall  we  this  presence  hold 
In  the  days  when  we  are  old! 

THOMAS  RUSSELL  SULLIVAN. 


Made  for  the  performance  of  the  "Maid's  Tragedy"  at  the 
Tavern  Club,  March  4,  1892. 

THE  play,  good  friends,  we  bring  you  here  to 
night 

You  have  your  parts  in  too.  Ours  to  rehearse 
What  Francis  Beaumont  wrote  us  in  the  days 
When  still  Westminster  lacked  him,  when  he 

lived 

Fellow  to  Shakespeare;  what  John  Fletcher,  too, 
Sharing  his  cloak  and  heart,  so  intertwined 
Amid  his  stronger  verse  that  mortals  since 
Name  them  together.    Yours  the  subtler  part: 
For  would  you  know  their  meaning,  who  have 

slept  — 
Save  for  the  drowsy  book-worms,  —  since  the 

time 

When  England  still  was  merry,  conscienceless, 
You  must  forget  yourselves;  nay,  for  a  while, 
Forget  the  godly,  warring  centuries 
Of  freedom  that  have  made  you  what  you  are. 
The  men  our  poets  wrote  for  be  to-night, 
Ready  to  make  in  fancy  what  the  craft 
Of  stage-wright  in  these  unfantastic  days 


10  PROLOGUE 

Must  fain  make  for  the  vulgar  —  palaces, 
Worlds,  beauty,  shadowed  in  a  word  or  two, 
But  here  for  who  will  see  them.    Furthermore, 
You  must  be  men  who  in  the  name  of  King 
Hear  no  more  term  of  state,  but  God's  deep  voice 
Naming  his  earthly  vicar.    Prone  to  sin 
Crowned  knaves  may  be,  even  as  our  baser  selves ; 
But  God's  anointment  makes  their  trespasses 
Graver  than  ours,  yet  safer.    His  the  hand, 
No  earthly  one,  that  may  chastise  the  wrongs 
The  royal  madmen  wreak,  whirling  along 
To  their  damnation,  deeper  still  than  ours, 
When  God  shall  ask  them,  trembling,  how  they 

bore 

The  trust  his  chrism  gave  them.    Even  so 
Amintor,  whose  sad  story  you  shall  hear, 
Held  sacred  him  that  wronged  him.  This  the  part 
You  play  to-night,  helping  us  shadow  forth 
Such  passions  as  made  English  folk  forget 
Awhile  their  own  vexations,  when  God's  voice 
Still  echoed,  calling  to  his  glorious  ones 
Elizabeth,  by  grace  of  God,  the  Queen! 

BARRETT  WENDELL. 


EPILOGUE 

To  "A  Night  in  Seville,"  December  23,  1896. 

FOUR  souls  are  saved,  and  so  our  masque  is  ended, 
With  two  and  two  in  one  another  blended! 
And  we  advance  a  twelvemonth  nearer  Heaven, 
When  Time  unfolds  the  gates  of  Ninety-Seven. 
Until  that  solemn  hour  let  mirth  and  laughter 
Ring  in  our  ears  from  every  beam  and  rafter. 
All  uncomplaining,  let  us  look  with  pity 
On  our  Executive,  our  House  Committee, 
Our  doctors,   statesmen,  shades   of   Ford  and 

Marlowe  — 
Even  our  poets,  and  thank  God  for  Arlo! 

THOMAS  RUSSELL  SULLIVAN. 


PROSPECT 

Notice  of  Christmas  Sports,  1897. 

TAVERNERS 

will  please  remember 
Twenty-second  of  December 
Is  the  date  the  powers  that  be 
For  the  Christmas  Masque  decree. 

What  the  plot  I  may  not  tell 

(Programme  later  on  reveals). 

This  at  least  be  known:  it  deals 

With  fable,  myth,  and  prophecy,  — 

Was,  May  be,  Might,  May  never  be;  — 

For  it  pictures  what  befell 

When  Venus,  tired  of  blowing  bellows, 

Planned  a  lark  with  some  good  fellows, — 

Old  acquaintance,  whom  her  lord 

Deemed  too  rakish  for  his  board: 

And  Vulcan,  frantic,  —  sure  he 's  sold  — 

Is  now  browbeaten,  now  cajoled; 

While,  'mid  domestic  downs  and  ups, 

Blithe  Bacchus  carols  in  his  cups, 

And  leads  Olympus  on  a  racket 

That  threatens  doom,  —  but  does  not  crack  it. 


PROSPECT  13 

And  yet  we  would  not  have  you  think 
The  motifs  are  but  love  and  drink; 
Know,  the  bard  doth  loft  his  strain, — 
As  the  revel  moves  again, — 
Scruples  not  a  Delphic  measure 
(Happy  Bard!  who  had  the  leisure!) 
And  careless  of  the  fame  to  follow, 
Pays  his  duty  to  Apollo. 

Ye,  then,  Keepers  of  the  Bear, 

Ye,  who  are  the  true  Arcturi, 

Pledged  to  guard  his  ursine  fury,  — 

Fail  not  to  assemble  there 

Sharp  at  Seven.    Who  conies  late 

Enters  by  the  area  gate. 

(Pray,  now,  mark  how  that 's  explicit,  — 

Leaded,  so  you  shall  not  miss  it.) 

Those  who  would  the  feast  attend 

By  Tuesday  must  their  notice  send 

That  —  lacking  Hebe  —  Gan'  may  get  us 

Ample  honey  —  from  Hymettus  — 

Assure  fit  service,  and  lay  on 

Copious  pipes  from  —  Helicon. 

One  more  caution,  ye  elect: 

Mindful  that  the  laws  reject 

From  this  solemn-jocund  feast 

All  save  members,  —  BRING  NO  GUEST. 

Lastly  (not  quite  finished  yet) 


14  PROSPECT 

The  Christmas  Box:   Do  not  forget 
The  order  is  that  all  be  merry. 

HERBERT  PUTNAM, 

Secretary. 


A  TOAST 

Verses  read  November  22,  1898,  in  response  to  the  toast  of 
"The  Ladies,"  on  the  occasion  of  the  dinner  in  honor 
of  those  who  did  service  in  connection  with  the  Hospital 
Ship  "Bay  State." 

You  ask  me  to  speak  in  behalf  of  the  ladies 
Who  shone  in  our  bout  with  the  cohorts  of  Cadiz ! 
You  ask  me  to  speak  on  behalf  of  the  nurses, 
And  with  your  permission  I  '11  do  it  in  verses. 

"The  ladies,  God  bless  them!"  the  toast  never 
varies 

From  Alaska's  cold  snows  to  the  sunny  Canaries. 

Man  fills  up  his  goblet  and  drains  it  while  drink 
ing, 

But  the  sentiment  lies  in  the  thought  which  he 's 
thinking. 

Those  dear  little  dolls  with  their  pretty  grimaces, 
Their  kittenish  ways  and  their  delicate  faces, 
Are  precious  to  some  because  dainty  and  fear 
ful, 
Adorably  helpless  and  readily  tearful. 


16  A  TOAST 

The  housewives  with  tact,  rather  plump  and  good 

looking, 

Nice,  amiable  souls  with  a  genius  for  cooking, 
Are  popular  still  with  the  saint  and  the  sinner,  — 
When  the  Chair  cries,  "  The  ladies! "  man  thinks 

of  his  dinner. 

The  daughter  of  Spam  with  the  night  in  her  hair, 
With  the  sloe  in  her  eye  and  an  indolent  air, 
Entrances  her  lover  who  taps  at  her  pane; 
Delicious !  But  where  are  the  navies  of  Spain  ? 

That  new  woman  is  fair  no  man  needs  to  be  told. 
She  has  night  in  her  hair,  she  has  tresses  of  gold ; 
But  what  makes  her  precious  for  you  and  for  me 
Is  the  soul  which  is  in  her,  the  soul  which  is  free. 

Which,  bursting  the  fetters  of  fashion  and  caste, 
Undeterred  by  tradition  and  deaf  to  the  past, 
Seeks  a  post  in  the  ranks,  claims  the  right  to  a 

place 
Wherever  her  presence  can  succor  the  race. 

Wherever  there's  room  for  sweet  patience  and 

care, 
For  love  which  complains  not  and  courage  to 

bear 


A  TOAST  17 

The  stress  of  life's  battle;  albeit  to  tread 
A  hospital  ship  in  the  wake  of  the  dead. 

Humanity  calls,  and  undaunted  she  stands. 
There  is  sweat  on  her  brow,  there  is  blood  on  her 

hands. 
Ho!    dames  with  traditions,  does  this  give  you 

pain? 
Take  heed,  and  remember  the  navies  of  Spain! 

"  The  ladies,  God  bless  them! "  Long  life  to  the 

toast. 

A  health  to  the  nurses  who  served  at  their  post 
In  a  hospital  ship  on  a  hurricane  sea 
For  the  sake  of  our  country,  for  you  and  for  me. 

ROBERT  GRANT. 


THE   'PRENTICES'   SONG 

From  "The  Prodigal  Son"  (1598,) 
December  22,  1898. 

HERE'S  to  the  youth,  the  'prentice  lad, 

Keen,  clever,  ah,  but  lazy, 
Who  quips  and  quirks,  and  plays  his  pranks, 

Till  his  master  is  nigh  crazy. 
He  loves  a  catch,  this  'prentice  lad, 

And  lustily  he  sings  it; 
Give  him  a  holiday,  and  see 

How  merrily  he  flings  it. 
But  when  the  catchpoles  stop  his  play, 

Ah,  best  he  loves  the  fighting; 
Come  when  it  will,  at  morn  or  night, 

That  never  gets  a  slighting. 

CHO.     Ho,  ho,  ho,  ha,  ha,  ha, 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

What  is  the  war-cry  then,  my  dears, 

Of  these  apprentice  cubs  ? 
Softly  now!   Don't  split  my  ears  — 
All  (spoken).  Clubs!  Clubs!  Ho,  this  way,  clubs! 


THE  'PRENTICES'  SONG  19 

CHO.    Ho,  ho,  ho,  ha,  ha,  ha, 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

Is  it  for  fun  alone  he  fights  ? 

Oh,  no,  the  Ordinary 
Oft  turns  him  out  aglow  with  port, 

With  sherry,  or  Canary. 
Then  take  the  wall  as  you  pass  by, 

Most  courteously  yield  it, 
Or  he  will  club  you  to  the  street  — 

For  stoutly  he  can  wield  it. 
And  oh  he  is  a  ready  knight 

To  aid  distressed  damsels, 
Both  high  and  low,  both  dark  and  fair, 

Dutch  fraiileins  and  French  mamselles. 

CHO.     Ho,  ho,  ho,  ha,  ha,  ha, 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

What  are  the  things,  my  gentle  dears, 

That  make  him  live  so  long  ? 
Softly  now!   Don't  shock  my  ears  — 
All  (spoken).  Why,  laughter,  love,  and  song! 

CHO.     Ho,  ho,  ho,  ha,  ha,  ha, 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

GEORGE  PIERCE  BAKER. 


PROLOGUE 

For  "The  Double  Marriage,"  April  18,  1900. 

WHILE  yet  the  stage  spoke  to  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  wrought  with  deeper  passions,  nobler  deeds, 
John  Fletcher  made  this  play.  The  men  who 

heard, 

Uncumbered  by  the  craft  of  later  time, 
The  tricks  mechanic  of  this  clever  age 
That  smothers  art  with  gewgaws,  heard  and 

thrilled ; 

Lived  in  the  actors,  pictured  every  place, 
And  bore  a  part  in  every  mimic  scene. 
The  magic  of  the  poet's  verse  for  them 
Was  like  the  wand  of  Prospero,  to  build 
The  fabric  of  a  vision;  they  were  wise, 
Not  through  the  tangible,  but  through  the  real; 
Not  through  the  painted  scene  and  sordid  fact, 
But  through  the  vision  of  the  inner  sight,  — 
Imagination's  perfect  prescience. 

To-night  be  as  were  they.    Listen  and  look 
With  inward  ear  and  eye.    Let  our  poor  craft 
Be  the  suggestion  of  a  gracious  dream 
Your  minds  shall  build.  'T  is  ours  only  to  hint,  — 


PROLOGUE  21 

To  hint  most  haltingly,  —  yet  you  may  know 
The  sweet  persuasion  of  a  moving  truth. 
Your  thought  shall  do  the  thing  we  cannot  do; 
Your  fancy  climb  to  heights  our  buskins  miss; 
And  your  imagination  fill  the  stage. 

Whate'er  success  attends  will  be  your  work; 
Whatever  failure  no  less  —  yours,  not  ours. 

ARLO  BATES. 


VERSES 

Read  at  the  Dinner  to  Mark  Twain,  January  16,  1901. 

FROM  Hartford  town  a  Yankee  once  across  the 

ages  strayed, 
And  sate  him  down  at  Arthur's  Court  to  ply  his 

Yankee  trade. 
And  oh!    it  was  a  fearsome  sight  to  see  those 

Knights  of  old 
Learn  all  our  little  Yankee  tricks,  and  do  as  they 

were  told;  — 
Sir  Mordred  at  the  telephone,  Sir  Bedivere  first 

base, 
Sir  Galahad  a  bicyclist,  breaking  his  pure  young 

face, 
The  lasso  in  a  tournament,  better  than  mail  and 

spear, 
The  weekly  journal  —  half  misprints  —  read  by 

Queen  Guenevere; 
Merlin  himself  outwitted  —  his  magic  turned  to 

dross; 
And  over  all  the  Yankee  stranger  lifted  high  — 

Sir  Boss! 


VERSES  23 

But  there  is  yet  another  Knight  —  errant  from 
Hartford  town. 

His  Arthur's  Court  has  been  the  world,  for  wan 
dering  up  and  down. 

From   Calaveras   County   and   the   Mississippi 
stream 

He  has  roughed  it  to  the  mountains  where  the 
Alpine  sunsets  gleam; 

Punch,  brothers,  punch  —  (but  in  the  ribs)  —  he 
sings  through  many  a  tome, 

And  tramping  much  abroad  he 's  left  some  inno 
cence  at  home. 

What  wonder,  then,  if  he  has  made  a  world  of 
men  his  debtors, 

For  all  his  lance  of  wit  has  wrought  at  the  Game- 
lot  of  letters! 

Full  well  his  accolade  is  won  —  his  enemies  all 
slain; 

So  let  us  cry,  "  Arise,  Sir  Mark  —  nay,  twice  a 
Knight  —  Mark  Twain !  " 

M.  A.  DE  WOLFE  HOWE. 


SONG 

Lawyers'  Night,  February  3,  1902. 

EVERY  worthy  club  in  Boston 

Has  its  proper  point  of  pride: 
At  the  Botolph  Sunday  Concerts, 

At  the  Somerset  't  is  "  side;" 
And  the  graveyard  gives  the  Union 

Its  distinctive  clammy  calm, 
But  the  Dry  Martini  Cocktail 
Is  the  Tavern's  special  charm! 

OH! 

Take  a  pinch  of  pepper, 

Add  a  gill  of  ink, 

Hah*  a  rubber  overshoe; 

Mix  'em  in  the  sink. 
Stew  'em  in  a  saucepan, 

Top  'em  off  with  ale.  .  .  . 
That's  the  Tavern  mixture 
For  a  Dry  Cocktail! 

WINTHROP  AMES. 


LINES 

On    the   playing    of    "Mercedes,"   at  the  Tavern  Club, 
February  24,  1903. 

ONCE,  walking  in  the  wilderness, 

I  met  a  maiden  fair; 
Wild  were  her  eyes,  wild  was  her  mien, 

Wild  was  her  tangled  hair. 
She  walked  as  one  distraught  by  fate, 

And  made  her  plaintive  moan; 
I  knew  her  the  Dramatic  Muse, 

Lost,  and  forgot,  and  lone. 
I  spoke  her  kind,  and  would  have  stayed 

Her  tears'  unceasing  flow; 
Beside  a  runnel  sat  she  down, 

And  told  me  all  her  woe. 
Her  voice  had  caught  the  notes  of  birds, 

But  deepened  like  the  sea, 
As  half  she  spoke  and  half  she  sighed 

Her  plaint  all  bitterly. 

"  Once  all  the  world  was  mine  to  rule, 

And  mankind  owned  my  sway; 
But  now  dominion  have  I  none; 
My  hests  will  none  obey. 


26  LINES 

Once,  when  my  mimic  world  was  shown 

All  life  was  dim  beside; 
This  was  the  real,  this  the  true, 

This  only  could  abide. 
I  showed  the  stuff  the  gods  have  used 

To  fashion  human  life: 
The  joy,  the  anguish,  hope,  and  fear, 

The  dreams,  the  doubt,  the  strife; 
Wild  passion  mingled  like  a  cup 

Of  honey  mixed  with  gall; 
Human  desire  with  quenchless  thirst, 

And  death  that  ends  it  all. 
The  hearts  of  men  were  in  my  hand; 

Their  souls  throbbed  at  my  will; 
I  kindled  in  their  breasts  a  flame 

Which  lights  the  ages  still. 

"  Such  lovers  as  I  had  of  old 

When  Greece  was  in  her  prime: 
Euripides  with  godlike  brow, 

Vast  JSschylus  sublime; 
Rare  Sophocles  with  gift  of  tears 

More  sweet  than  love's  own  smile; 
Keen  Aristophanes  with  wit 

Might  e'en  the  gods  beguile. 
But  now"  — 


LINES  27 

Her  voice  broke  off  in  sobs; 

Then  sudden  anger  flashed 
From  her  wet  eyes;  with  scornful  hand 

The  crowding  tears  she  dashed; 
And  in  a  fitful  voice,  now  sad, 

Now  swelling  into  rage, 
She  poured  her  words  indignant  forth, 

Indicting  thus  our  age: 

But  now  the  stage  which  once  I  graced 

Is  your  reproach  and  shame; 
A  place  where  scurril  wantons  jest, 

Or  fools  all  good  defame. 
Where  once  Apollo's  lyre  sung 

The  twanging  banjos  beat; 
Where  honor  triumphed  over  death 

'T  is  trampled  under  feet. 
Where  Terence  with  a  skill  adroit 

Wrought  shrewd  satiric  fun, 
Pinero  turns  the  sewers  out 

To  fester  in  the  sun. 
There  Ibsen  builds  a  lazar-house 

For  lepers  of  the  mind; 
And  playwright-panders  search  the  stews 

Fresh  filthiness  to  find. 
His  golden  cup,  divinely  wrought 

With  jewels  sparkling  rich, 


28  LINES 

D'Annunzio  fills  to  its  brave  brim 

From  hell's  obscenest  ditch. 
Where  once  pure  maiden  figures  passed,  — 

Hapless  Antigone, 
Cordelia  sad,  gay  Rosalind,  — 

Sappho  or  Zaza  see! 
I  hear  the  silly  laughter-spume 

Indecent  jests  exploit! 
I  laughed  with  flashing  Sheridan,  — 

I  weep  at  Charlie  Hoyt. 
Ah,  when  the  gods  a  race  would  blast 

They  send  Vulgarity, 
The  fellest  fury  known  in  hell, 

Its  pest  and  curse  to  be. 
With  jeweled  names  your  history  set, 

Imperishably  fine,  — 
Ford,  Fletcher,  Webster,  Beaumont,  Ben, 

And  Shakespeare  the  divine,  — 
Have  you  no  place  to  do  me  grace  ? 

Where  men  do  not  forget 
How  in  an  earlier,  happier  time 

Such  love  on  me  was  set  ? 
Once  I  gave  joy  and  grace  to  life, 

To  valor,  best  renown; 
Now  will  not  one  poor  worshiper 

My  flameless  altars  crown  ?  " 


LINES  29 

She  ceased.    The  little  runnel  purled 

In  music  at  our  feet; 
And  all  the  sombre  wood  was  hushed 

To  hear  its  chiming  sweet. 
Fain  would  I  comfort  to  her  give, 

And  sudden  in  my  head 
Sprang  a  quick  thought.    I  seized  her  hand, 

As  eagerly  I  said: 

"Goddess,  one  place  forgets  thee  not; 

There  yet  thine  altars  flame. 
The  Tavern  Club  is  faithful  still, 

And  guards  thine  ancient  fame. 
Thine  art  still  there  hath  reverence; 

There  yet  the  lyre  rings. 
Thou  art  not  voiceless  while  for  thee 
Melodious  ALDEICH  sings!" 

ABLO  BATES. 


TO   B.   P. 

A  "HELLION"  VERSE 

"Literary  Night,"  February  24,  1903. 

OH,  Perry,  in  our  hours  of  ease 
We  send  you  verses  —  worse  than  these ; 
When  backward  flows  the  Atlantic  tide, 
'T  is  just  a  case  of  Bliss  Denied. 

M.  A.  DEWOLFE  HOWE. 


A  SONG 

By    Musicus,    winner    of    Prize     in     Song    Competition, 
February  24,  1903. 

HERE'S  to  the  Bear  who  abides  in  his  lair, 
His  castle,  his  club  and  his  cavern; 
Of  his  warm,  shaggy  hair  may  he  never  go  bare, 
Here's  a  hug  for  the  Bear  in  the  Tavern! 

Here's  to  the  Prex  whom  no  hellion  can  vex; 
And  here 's  to  the  chair  he  has  sat  in ; 
Here 's  to  the  speech  that  its  lesson  will  teach, 
And  here's  to  his  lungs  and  his  Latin! 

CHORUS 

Of  his  warm,  shaggy  hair  may  he  never  go  bare ! 
Here's  a  hug  for  the  Prex  in  the  Tavern! 

Here 's  to  our  guest  in  a  glass  of  the  best, 
To  prove  him  the  warmth  of  our  greeting! 
Once  for  his  health,  once  again  for  his  wealth, 
Once  more  for  the  joy  of  this  meeting! 

CHORUS 

Of  his  warm,  shaggy  hair  may  he  never  go  bare ! 
Here 's  a  hug  for  the  Guest  in  the  Tavern ! 


32  A  SONG 

Here's  to  the  Club  that's  the  light  of  the  Hub, 
And  all  who  turned  out  to  invent  it! 
Let  the  red  drink  hard  to  the  green-ribbon  guard, 
Till  the  green  and  the  red  repent  it! 

CHORUS 

Of  its  warm,  shaggy  hair  may  it  never  go  bare! 
Here 's  a  hug  for  the  Club  in  the  Tavern ! 

THOMAS  RUSSELL  SULLIVAN. 


THE   MUSKETEERS 

Verses  read  at  the  Tavern  Club,  December  4,  1903. 

THE  Musketeers  are  here  again; 
Three  gladsome  Gallic  gentlemen. 
Here's  Athos  with  the  poet's  glance, 
Here's  Porthos  with  the  portly  paunch, 
And  Aramis,  who  somehow  strayed, 
But  comes  to-night  to  claim  his  blade, 
And  sit  once  more  with  this  dear  crowd, 
By  whose  kind  vote  it  is  allowed. 

Gallic  are  we  in  pulse  and  brain, 

For  we  were  nourished  on  champagne; 

Whose  bubbling  vintage  when  man  's  dry 

Lifts  him  in  zigzags  to  the  sky. 

But  though  we  love  the  last  safe  drop, 

We  always  know  just  when  to  stop, 

And  tottering  "  hellions  "  see  us  stand 

Staunch  as  a  lighthouse  far  from  land. 

Our  province  has  been  to  protect 

The  Tavern's  proper  self-respect, 

Yet  keep  the  note  of  gayety 

At  just  that  fascinating  key 

When  men  can  tumble  into  bed 

And  still  remember  what  they've  said. 


34  THE  MUSKETEERS 

In  these  old  halls  enlarged  and  decked 
Our  charge  shall  still  be  to  protect 
The  heaven-born  poet  as  he  sings, 
The  minstrel  when  he  stirs  the  strings; 
And  yet  give  mirth  full  elbow  room. 
We  are  the  enemies  of  gloom. 
So  Arlo's  soul  may  sport  in  peace 
Perched  on  an  ample  mantel-piece. 
So  nonsense  voiced  by  joyous  men 
Shall  make  the  tired  brain  young  again. 

And  you,  Sir,  sitting  in  the  chair 
Our  D'Artagnan  and  Captain  are, 
Though  D'Artagnan  was  but  a  "gent" 
Compared  with  what  you  represent. 
What  model  for  old  Dumas'  pen, 
Had  you  been  born  and  doing  then! 

As  Taverners  and  Musketeers 
We  now  renew  the  pledge  of  years. 
With  ranks  unbroken  here  we  stand 
With  sword  and  cup  in  either  hand. 
Our  blades  are  made  of  flawless  steel, 
We  slake  our  thirsts  but  never  reel, 
Our  hearts  are  true,  our  faith  we  swear 
To  Art,  to  Friendship  and  the  Bear! 

ROBERT  GRANT. 


GLITHA'S   SONG 

From  "The  Vanished  Bride,"  December  22,  1903. 

IN  days  long  dead  there  lived  a  Knight, 
In  old  Mortaine,  whose  clouded  sight 
Revealed  not  to  him,  day  or  night, 

The  face  of  her  whose  soul  he  loved. 

And  though  he  heard  the  singing  call 
Of  maid  to  man  through  every  hall 
In  gay  Mortaine,  no  song  at  all 

Heard  he  of  hers  whose  songs  he  loved.  • 

Yet  had  he  faith  that  made  the  air 
Of  strange  Mortaine  alive  with  fair 
Brave  visions  strengthening  him  to  dare 

Great  deeds  for  her  whose  strength  he  loved. 

Wherefore  with  dragon-shapes  that  flew 
And  crawled  and  crept  and  rose  anew 
To  slay  the  Knight,  he  fought  and  slew 

Each  one,  for  her  whose  heart  he  loved. 


36  GLITHA'S  SONG 

And  lo,  the  dragon-shapes  once  slain, 
The  Knight,  rejoicing,  heard  the  strain 
Of  lutes,  and  saw  her  face  again 

Whose  song  and  heart  and  soul  he  loved. 
HENRY  COPLEY  GREENE 


TO   OWEN   WISTER 

A  "  Hellion"  Verse,  January  15,  1904. 

ABOUT  your  novel,  The  Virginian, 
There  seems  to  be  but  one  opinion; 
As  near  as  we  can  make  it,  Mr., 
There 's  lots  of  money  Owin'  Wr. ! 

FRANCIS  SHAW  STURGIS. 


ON   STAGING   A   PLAY   BY   B.   W. 

"WE  BOSTONIANS:"     January  15,  1904. 
A  "  Hellion  "  Verse. 

BARRETT  wrote  a  little  play 
Whose  plot  was  white  as  snow, 
And  everywhere  that  Barrett  played 
The  play  was  sure  to  "  go." 

FRANCIS  SHAW  STURGIS. 


TO   THE   TAVERNERS 

With  a  present  of  champagne  on  the  occasion  of  the  dinner 
to  Perrier  Jouet,  February  3,  1904. 

BROTHERS  in  Tavern,  you  have  willed 

A  sparkling  guest  to  entertain; 
And  as  you  sit  with  glasses  filled 

O  hear  an  absentee  complain: 
Pity,  my  brothers,  his  sore  plight 

That  may  not  dine  with  you  to-night. 
His  spirit  and  his  heart  are  sore, 

His  fortune  like  his  wine  is  brute: 
But  they  that  cannot  go  to  war 

Make  haste  to  send  a  substitute; 
For  his  dull  stead  this  foam  of  France 

Shall  make  you  gain  from  his  mischance. 

OWEN  WISTER. 


LINES 

Read  at  Dinner  to  Cameron  Forbes,  May  26,  1904. 

HE'S  hitched  no  wagon  to  a  star; 

He  drives  a  constellation; 
The  Southern  Cross  his  coursers  are, 

Large  deeds  his  destination. 
Drawn  by  those  soft,  imperial  orbs 

That  never  wheel  in  Northern  skies, 
He  goes,  from  Emerson  and  Forbes, 

To  make  a  people  rich  and  wise. 

A  thousand  islands  wait  for  him; 

The  Tagalog  and  Moro, 
Visayans,  Ygorotes  grim 

Who  use  the  bow  and  arrow. 
The  Macabebe,  friendly  soul,  — 

All  wait  his  coming  to  be  won 
Out  of  a  century  of  dole 

Into  a  thousand  years  of  sun. 

All  through  the  archipelago 

They  '11  lay  aside  the  bolo 
Whenever  they  shall  come  to  know 

That  Cam's  advancing  solo. 


LINES  41 

He  '11  keep  them  guileless  of  our  worst 

And  teach  them  all  our  best  —  like  Taft  — 

And  shield  them  from  one  word,  the  curst 
New  coinage  of  our  language  —  Graft. 

Let  others  build  a  great  canal, 

Pick  up  the  French  dropped  stitches; 
Our  Cam  does  something  less  banal 

Than  merely  digging  ditches. 
That  railways  now  may  loop  the  heights 

Where  lurked  the  brutal  ambuscade, 
That  hospitals  may  rise  on  sites 

Where  mercy  shrank  till  now  afraid, 

We  send  our  football  strategist, 

Our  comrade  and  good  fellow. 
And  though  among  white  men  he 's  missed, 

He's  good  for  brown  and  yellow. 
And  when  the  years  bring  back  to  us 

The  same  Cam,  only  older, 
We  Taverners,  from  Dick  to  Gus, 

Will  dine  him,  shoulder  to  shoulder. 

ARTHUR  STANWOOD  PIER. 


LINES 

At  Dinner  to  Cameron  Forbes,  May  26,  1904. 

To  the  East,  to  the  East !  Some  can  hear  nothing 

else 

Than  the  tinkling  call  of  the  old  temple  bells ; 
But  a  voice,  like  a  memory  waked  from  the  past, 
Calls  to  him,  him  alone,  "You  are   coming  at 

last, 
For  the  blood  of  your  fathers,  still  warm  at  the 

heart, 
Leaps  free  at  the  Orient  cry  to  depart ! " 

One  grandsire  heeded  the  same  searching  cry 
When  the  flags  at  his  mast -tops  were  wonted  to 

fly 

Over  cargoes  of  sweet-scented  wares  from  the 

land 

Of  magic  and  mystery,  bound  for  the  strand 
Where  all  that  he  ventured  forth  bore  him  again 
Tenfold  in  the  wealth  and  the  wisdom  of  men. 

Another  —  that  sage  of  New  England,  whose 

name 
Needs  not  to  be  spoken,  so  sure  is  his  fame — 


LINES  43 

Cruised  wide  through  the  Eastern  dominions  of 

thought, 

And  home  for  our  treasure  his  argosies  brought, 
Enlarging  the  spirit,  enabling  the  man 
When  "thou  must"  is  the  order,  to  whisper  "I 

can." 

See  them  both  in  the  darkness  of  war's  bitter 

hour, 
Full-armed  with  the  weapons  of  wisdom  and 

power  — 

One  counseling  greatly  with  rulers  perplexed 
Over  soldiers,  and  sinews,  and  what  to  do  next; 
One  lifting  the  heart  of  the  people  with  song, 
And  girding  the  right  still  to  conquer  the  wrong. 

What  wonder  then,  Cam,  that  you  turn  from  our 

feast 

And  journey  afar  to  your  grandfathers'  East, 
Where  a  patriot's  mission  of  mercy  awaits 
Your  part  in  its  doing  ?    Oh  fortunate  fates  — 
Now  the  isles  of  the  East  shall  account  them 
selves  blest 

That  young  Cameron  Forbes  is  come  out  of  the 
West! 

M.  A.  DEWOLFE  HOWE. 


SONNET 

For  the  Twentieth  Anniversary,  November  11,  1904. 

GRIEVED  for  lost  Youth,  who  not  for  prayers 

would  stay, 

But  mocking  with  light  laughter,  her  fair  head 
Gold-aureoled  with  her  sunny  hair,  had  fled 
Like  some  wild  dryad  down  a  woodland  way, 
Taking  the  cheer  and  brightness  of  my  day,  — 
I  walked  beside  grim  beldam  Age  instead; 
Till  happy  chance  up  to  the  Tavern  led: 
And  here  with  joy  I  found  once  more  my  may, 
Here  where  the  man  speaks  with  the  boy's  frank 

tongue; 

Laughs  the  lad's  laugh,  catches  youth's  wine- 
foam  jest; 
Where  stiffened   throats   supple  in   blithesome 

song, 

And  lips  white-bearded  yet  in  smiles  are  young; 
Here,  where,  though  heads  be  gray,  we  find  the 

zest 
And  mirth  that  to  immortal  youth  belong. 

ARLO  BATES. 


VERSES 

Read    at    the  Dinner    on    the    Twentieth    Anniversary 
November  11,  1904. 

TWENTY  years  of  bread  and  fizz, 
Clever  stunts  and  honest  mirth! 
Twenty  happy  years  it  is 
Since  the  moment  of  our  birth. 
Whiskered  men  to-night  we  sit, 
Saving  Arlo  who  has  shaved, 
Well  because  we've  welcomed  wit, 
Young  because  we  've  misbehaved. 

Surgeons  brilliant  with  the  knife 
Capering  like  pantaloons, 
Leaders  of  litigious  strife 
Howling  songs  in  many  tunes, 
Artists  hungry  after  fame 
Popping  champagne  corks  at  care, 
These  and  more  whom  I  could  name 
Are  the  followers  of  the  Bear. 

Ever  to  be  serious 
Indicates  the  tedious  mind. 
Usefulness  is  labor  plus 
Joy  of  a  relaxing  kind. 


46  VERSES 

Those  who  deign  not  to  unbend 
To  the  follies  of  their  peers 
Rust  out  lonely  to  the  end. 
We  shall  live  a  thousand  years. 

Mr.  Eliot  has  said 
That  the  ashman  or  the  clerk 
Toiling  for  his  daily  bread 
Should  take  pleasure  in  his  work. 
Is  there  not  an  equal  need 
That  our  nervous  native  clay 
Driven  by  the  "  hustling  "  creed 
Should  take  pleasure  in  its  play  ? 

Joy  comes  first,  but  art  is  next, 
And  our  A  is  underlined. 
Scorn  of  cheapness  is  our  text, 
Reverence  for  the  well-trained  mind, 
Homage  for  the  gifted  soul 
Which  keeps  true  unto  its  aim 
As  the  needle  to  the  pole, 
Deaf  to  fashionable  fame. 

We  have  thrown  some  huge  bouquets 
At  the  famous  of  our  time. 
Sent  home  staggering  —  under  bays  — 
Genius  from  many  a  clime. 


VERSES  47 

But  the  fullness  of  your  heart 
Aggravated  by  champagne 
Never  has  acclaimed  false  art 
Nor  has  crowned  a  shallow  brain. 

Fellowship  comes  third  and  last; 
Nature's  kindest  gift  to  man, 
Gilder  of  the  dreamy  past, 
Henchman  of  time's  caravan, 
Who  upon  life's  winding  road 
Keeps  the  dust  of  travel  down, 
Helps  the  wanderer  with  his  load, 
Balks  the  fly-blown  cynic's  frown. 

Here  we  learn  to  love  and  serve, 
And  each  spirit  warms  to  each 
When  the  barriers  of  reserve 
Fall  before  the  flood  of  speech. 
As  to  what  the  psychists  claim 
Controversial  folk  may  vary, 
But  our  Dick's  best  hold  on  fame 
Are  his  words,  —  the  dictionary. 

Joy  and  Art  and  Fellowship! 
So  we  know  the  reason  why 
Some  men  when  life's  cables  slip 
In  a  tavern  fain  would  die. 


48  VERSES 

Twenty  years  have  come  and  gone, 
Twenty  years  will  pass  again; 
Other  doctors  will  be  born, 
Others  wielding  brush  and  pen 
Here  will  sit  and  pledge  the  toast 
Dear  to  age  and  beardless  youth, 
*'  To  the  Bear,  our  merry  host, 
While  we  live  let's  live  for  truth." 
Thus  each  generation's  birth 
Shall  attest  the  nearing  goal, 
While  the  echoes  of  your  mirth 
Bring  refreshment  to  the  soul. 

ROBERT  GRANT. 


THE   PRESIDENTIAL   RANGE 

Tune:  "  Vicar  of  Bray  " 

Sung  by  John  Sturgis  Codman  at  the  Twentieth  Anniversary 
Dinner,  November  11,  1904. 

WHEN  first  our  brotherhood  began, 

In  days  of  ancient  fable, 
They  looked  about  for  just  the  man 

To  sit  at  the  head  of  the  table; 
They  spied  him  out  with  foresight  keen, 

Who'd  make  all  men  his  debtors, 
And  seated  Howells  —  William  Dean  — 

The  Dean  of  Yankee  letters. 

CHORUS  :  Then  bless  the  Bear 

That  guards  the  Chair 

At  the  Hub  within  the  Hub,  sir! 

My  purpose  still 

I  will  fulfill 

And  die  in  the  Tavern  Club,  sir! 

Next  came  a  Colonel  to  command 

The  Boylston  Place  battalions; 
He  guided  well  the  noisy  band 

Of  gentlemen  rapscallions. 


50        THE  PRESIDENTIAL  RANGE 

In  peace  and  war,  to  all  the  arts 

He  held  the  magic  key,  sir, 
The  key  that  opens  kindred  hearts  — 

Did  Colonel  Henry  Lee,  sir! 
CHORUS. 

To  Deans  and  Colonels  now  farewell, 

And  hail  to  their  successor! 
From  out  his  academic  cell 

Steps  forth  a  loved  professor, 
Of  golden  heart  and  golden  tongue,  — 

A  gold  the  market 's  short  on,  — 
The  Cambridge  Grecian,  ever  young, 

Our  own  Charles  Eliot  Norton. 
CHORUS. 

Now  he  whose  joy  it  is  to  enrich 

Both  sides  of  Boston's  river 
Adorns  our  presidential  niche  — 

'T  is  Higginson,  the  Giver. 
But  titles  new  he  needs  them  not, 

He'd  scorn  them  all,  I  wager; 
Yet  never  here  shall  be  forgot 

The  Bear's  —  the  Ursa's  —  Major. 
CHORUS. 

M.  A.  DEWOLFE  HOWE. 


EPILOGUE 

The  Christmas  Play,  December  23,  1904. 

NOTE  you  this,  —  we  looked  to-night 
To  the  Bear  for  our  delight; 
He,  't  was  said,  would  rule  the  sport, 
Lead  the  revels  at  his  court, 
Show  the  members,  young  and  old, 
Tavern  antics  manifold. 
Yet  if  I  remember  true, 
This  is  what  he  did  not  do; 
'T  was  the  members  —  you  and  you  — 
Showed  the  Bear  a  thing  or  two; 
His  may  be  the  Tavern's  body, 
Yours  the  spirit,  Paul  and  Waddy, 
Holker,  Gericke,  and  Sturgis  — 
You  provide  the  true  Walpurgis 
Night  or  day-time  in  the  Tavern! 
Shall  we  grudge  him,  then,  his  cavern  ? 
If  the  cubs  outgrow  the  Bear, 
Shall  he  lose  their  love  and  care? 
Nay,  a  thousand  times,  nay,  nay! 
May  he  dwell  with  us  for  aye  — 
Emblem  of  the  best  that 's  here, 
Honest,  big,  without  a  fear, 


52  EPILOGUE 

Rough  without,  and  snug  within, 
Loyal  to  his  kith  and  kin! 
Hand  in  hand,  then,  heart  by  heart, 
Up,  my  brothers,  ere  we  part! 
He  shall  lead  our  ancient  song, 
Rendered  in  a  Bearish  tongue: 

"  *T  is  my  purpose  here  to  die 
In  the  Tavern,  where  the  dry 
Still  may  find  whereof  to  sip 
Opposite  the  thirsting  Up, 
That  the  angel  chorus  may, 
While  it  wafts  me  heavenward,  say 

'  Crown,  oh  Lord,  with  approbations 
This  good  friend  of  all  potations.' " 

M.  A.  DEWOLFE  HOWE. 


VALENTINE 

February  14,  1905. 
"LET  THE  HILLS  BE  JOYFUL  TOGETHER." 

WHEN  to  write  you  have  the  will, 
Take  a  dose  of  Adams  Hill. 

If  'twixt  "  shall"  and  "will"  you  stick, 
Try  page  forty,  —  Rhetoric. 

If  you  'd  flash  with  verbal  prisms, 
Mind  page  thirty,  —  "  Solecisms." 

If  "colloquial"  is  your  size, 
Dissect  Hill's  "  Improprieties." 

For  every  form  of  vulgar  ill, 
Deliverance  lurks  in  Doctor  Hill. 

If  you  court  the  law's  delay, 
Arthur  Hill  will  stop  the  way. 

If  you  need  a  "  Lawyer's  Night," 
Arthur  Hill  will  set  you  right. 


54  VALENTINE 

When  you  're  clubbed  by  the  police, 
Arthur  Hill  will  bring  surcease. 

So  you  shall,  where'er  you  roam, 
Fondly  seek  the  Hills  of  home. 

"  Copp's  Hill." 
THOMAS  RUSSELL  SULLIVAN. 


VALENTINE 

(TO  P.  T.) 

February  14,  1905. 

WHEN  Paul  draws  near  the  Belvidere 

In  Robinson's  Museum, 
In  one  another's  marble  ear 

The  statues  whisper,  "See  him!" 
And  Venus  wakes  upon  her  shelf 

And  tries  hotfoot  to  follow, 
And  Satyr  chuckles  to  himself 

When  Paul  appals  Apollo. 

ARTHUR  STANWOOD  PIER. 


TO  BOOKER   WASHINGTON 

Lines  read  at  the  dinner  in  his  honor,  March  15,  1905. 

BORN  of  a  race  enslaved,  despised,  and  taunted, 
Quick  in  the  burning  bush  God's  voice  to  know, 
Before  the  king  the  prophet  stood  undaunted. 
"  The  Lord  hath  spoken :  '  Let  my  people  go ! ' " 

In  cloud  and  fire  Jehovah  moved  before  him; 
He  stretched  his  hand  above  the  waters'  bed; 
Through  cleaving  waves  the  God  of  Israel  bore 

him 
Where  Pharaoh's  mighty  chariots  sank  as  lead. 

Three  thousand  years.  A  freeborn  nation's 
morning 

Was  black  with  gathering  thunder-clouds  of  woe ; 

Once  more  unheeded  rang  the  prophet's  warn 
ing. — 

"  The  Lord  hath  spoken :    '  Let  my  people  go ! " 

The  God  of  Hosts  our  stubborn  hearts  con 
founded; 

He  smote  the  waters  with  avenging  hand. 
High  in  the  heavens  Jehovah's  trumpet  sounded, 
And  the  red  sea  rolled  wide  across  the  land. 


TO   BOOKER  WASHINGTON        57 

On  Horeb  still  the  bush  of  God  is  burning; 
Still  in  the  smoke  and  flame  his  sign  we  know, 
Still  cries  the  prophet,  from  the  mount  returning, 
"  The  Lord  hath  spoken:  '  Let  my  people  go! 

"  '  My  people,  bound  in  darkness  and  in  terror. 
My  people,  childlike,  trustful,  patient,  slow, 
Yearning  for  light,  yet  groping  long  in  error  — 
Children  of  Freedom,  let  my  people  go ! "! 

Stretch    forth    thine   hand,    O    prophet    giant- 
hearted, 

Divide  the  waters  of  the  rolling  sea. 
Lead  thou  thine  host  betwixt  the  billows  parted, 
Till  black  shall  stand  with  white,  erect  and  free. 
LE  BARON  RUSSELL  BRIGGS. 


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